


if you had a single flaw

by no_notea



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angry Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Choking, Degradation, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt likes being choked. sue me, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Im bad at writing fluff so its glossed over at the end, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Submissive Geralt of Rivia, also jaskier steps on him a few times, and then they fuck, basically Jaskier insults Geralt a Lot, dubious consent is actually full consent, no beta we die like a witcher, they do make up though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22751302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_notea/pseuds/no_notea
Summary: He pressed hard into Geralt's neck, heard the man snarl at the pain, the sound getting stuck in his throat where Jaskier was blocking it. The complete lack of air only made him less focused, so the bard savored the moment of watching Geralt's jaw go slack and needy before lifting his weight, hearing him gulp air like it was water."You never fucking listen. Never.""I know.""Don't you feel sorry?""I do.""Then say it."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 286





	if you had a single flaw

**Author's Note:**

> notes before reading:  
> Jaskier does not ask for consent and believes the acts he follows up with to be non-consensual (he thinks Geralt is simply complying, not enjoying) however it is quite the opposite, (Geralt has wordlessly given consent and is enjoying it) - because of this i have added the dubcon tag! If this makes you squeamish or uncomfortable and you feel like i need to tag differently please let me know!

"You should be lucky." There's hardly an ounce of passion, nor feeling, twisted in the bard's words. Only the oppressing air of disappointment. "Lucky that I'm even looking at you right now, witcher. That I can even _stand_ to look at you. Isn't that right?"

Geralt's breath was raspy as he exhaled. Despite being a mutant, an entire foot pressed firmly against his neck was still uncomfortable enough to make breathing a bit hard. "Yes," he replied through gritted teeth. Jaskier raised an eyebrow and blinked slowly, looking bored. 

" _Yes,_ he says. As if you didn't abandon me like some sodden puppy on top of a cliff. What were you _thinking,_ Geralt?"

His name on Jaskier’s tongue made his head spin, no matter the context, and he felt his eyes roll up briefly at the sensation of it washing over his overheated skin. 

"I- wasn't." He takes several quick breaths, taking in as much air as he can while Jaskier shifts his weight on his neck. "I wasn't thinking."

"Hmm. Sounds about right." His lips curl a bit into an unpleasant snarl, looking down at the inhuman killing machine under his boot as if he was just a dead bug, or an annoying pet yapping underfoot.

"I still haven't heard you say it, though. You've embarrassed yourself already, letting me get this far, what's two more little words, Geralt? Hum? Geralt of Rivia?" He waited for a response, but said witcher was too busy staring at Jaskier's lips, as if they were as graceful as dancing women from a travelling caravan. Looking drunk, entranced, eyes half lidded, and not fucking paying attention. 

He pressed hard into Geralt's neck, heard the man brace against the pain, the sound getting stuck in his throat where Jaskier was blocking it. The complete lack of air only made him less focused, so the bard savored the moment of watching Geralt's jaw go slack and needy before lifting his weight, hearing him gulp air like it was water. 

"You never fucking listen. Never." 

"I know."

"Don't you feel sorry?"

"I do."

"Then say it."

He hesitated once more, and Jaskier was visibly growing tired of it. Huffing in irritation, he stopped looking at Geralt, arms still crossed, he instead focuses on the mirror in front of them. Oh, he looked rather nice. Geralt on his back, still fully adorned in leather armor, letting a measly bard get away with pushing him around. He felt powerful - was this the kind of high that Yennefer is always chasing? If so, he understands completely.

But the pride of holding down a witcher with a single push isn't shown or expressed on his face, leaving Geralt completely in the dark, only aware of the growing distaste that Jaskier holds for him. He could feel Geralt swallowing, fidgeting, and wishing for those eyes on him once more.

"No," he responded easily without sparing a glance. "I'm not giving in to your whining, witcher."

Geralt stilled his body, but the feel of his throat working around inaudible words remained. 

Jaskier yawned, making a bit of a show of it. He was tired, after spending the whole day composing, tearing out verses and replacing them with fresh ones, strumming and fiddling and walking the length of town and back just to find the right words. He was commissioned - yes, being paid _before_ a song was even heard, like a real musician - to write a ballad. A ballad about a countess and her undying love for a knight that she will never be with, but somehow is with by the end. A confusing twist honestly, and it didn't help that Jaskier was, frankly, not at all in the mood to write such sugary ballads, but he was pulling it off rather well. It was all going quite smoothly, in fact, even the stress did not waver him, only leaving him hungrier for the eventual taste of success.

Of course, though, on a day where he is most productive, is when Geralt decides to show up. Unexpected, uninvited, and with a foot in the door frame to prevent Jaskier shutting it angrily in his face. Didn't stop him from trying though, and after a failed attempted at breaking the mutant's toes through those thick worn boots with the combined force of the door and his anger, Geralt pushed his way inside the study anyway, as if Jaskier actually wanted him here.

He did not, in fact, want him here, and after much yelling he finally made a point to Geralt.

_"If you ever cared once for me, you would show me some vulnerability. Right now. Some kind of weakness. Coming here with your palms upturned is not enough, no, of course it wouldn't be, who do you think I am? I want you to show me that you regret. And make it convincing. Make it mean something."_

So when Geralt of fucking Rivia got on his knees to grovel, and he _allowed_ Jaskier to kick him down to floor, he knew Geralt was making that effort.

But the words, oh, the damn words just wouldn't come out. A man of action, as always, but Jaskier was a poet, and wanted him to open his mouth for once and plead.

Plead for forgiveness, for Jaskier's attention, for anything. Just fucking _beg._

"I'm-" the rough voice stole Jaskier from his thoughts, and he glanced down, barely. "I'm sorry."

"Hm."

"I wasn't thinking-"

"No, you weren't."

"Not in the right state of mind-"

"You certainly weren't."

"I was foolish. Forgive me."

"That, you were."

_"Forgive me."_

He finally looked down, fully tilting his head so Geralt could see the lack of feeling in his blue eyes. No playful light, no heartbroken sorrow clouding his sight, just a thick blanket of absolute apathy. He knew it made Geralt uncomfortable. That's why he did it; this was a punishment. 

"Should I forgive you?" Tilting his head, brown hair falling slightly over his eyes. "After all you've done to me, do you think I should?"

"That's... your choice to make.*

"Smart answer. Now, do you _want_ me to forgive you?"

"God-" he choked, air catching in his constricted throat. "Please. I do."

"You do?"

"Please."

This whole time, Geralt's hands laid obediently at his sides, never once raising them to resist. The short but effective words were like sweet symphonies to the bard’s ears, hearing not one but two blatant pleas for his pardon. Maybe, if he choose to forgive him that is, Jaskier could get used to the sound of Geralt begging.

Jaskier’s judgmental gaze raked down the man’s leather-clad body until he found something unexpected awaiting him below the belt.

The foot which pressed against his thick neck moved south, pressing on his collarbones, his pectorals, lean stomach, all the way down to Geralt’s crotch. Without even needing to apply pressure, Jaskier could tell he was a little more than half hard.

Fine brown eyebrows shot up despite himself, curiosity and a bit of amusement finally peeking through his hard exterior. “Pray tell, what is this, exactly?”

Geralt's throat bobbed, eyes wide as he stared at where Jaskier’s boot pressed into his erection, which only seemed to grow at the attention. No doubt his strong, stoic witcher was embarrassed by him noticing, but Jaskier was not about to pass up an opportunity to make this situation even more humiliating for Geralt.

“Huh,” he huffed, and curved his ankle to toe at the head of his cock. “Who would have known, that Geralt of Rivia got off to getting choked and berated.” Expression turning sour with realization, Jaskier snarled audibly and dug his heel into the hardness underfoot, privately enjoying the way Geralt winced. “Of course you do. Why else would you hang around that _Yennefer_ , who spends all her time bossing you about like the high and mighty bitch she is. You had to get some sort of pleasure out of it, else you wouldn’t have let her, isn’t that right? Should I have been just as harsh to you if I wanted to keep you around, abandon all sweet talk and hopes of wholesome friendship?”  
Geralt tried to speak, the he didn’t let him. “Should’ve just walked all over you and broken your heart first, maybe then you’d chase after me like a mutt-“

 _“Stop-“_ Geralt interrupted, loud, with a tone of urgency; as if he couldn’t bear to hear what Jaskier implied. “You don’t have to do that. I chased you all the same, didn’t I?” 

Those words, the ones he used to long to hear so much, only sparked the ire in his chest to burn like a bonfire and be twice as powerful. “Do you dare imply that you came for me not out of guilt, but because you _missed me?_ Spare me your pity, for the love of God, it isn’t like you to be so pathetic.”

“No,” Geralt tried again, “No, Jaskier, I don’t say this out of pity.”

Silence spread thick between the two, only the sound of crackling flames from the stone fireplace filled the space between their wordless exchange. Geralt looked pained, and Jaskier was fed up. He never felt so weak, but so powerful at the same time.

“Pathetic,” he whispered and paused, letting the weight of the word settle over the room. “That’s what I’ve always been to you. It’s time you took on that light for me, hm?”

He didn’t protest, when Jaskier straddled his thighs. Didn’t make a sound, only inhaled when he hastily tore away the ties keeping his pants in place. Those _stupid_ leather pants, always hugging those thighs and ass, always accentuating every infuriating angle in mouthwatering clarity. Jaskier was _fed up_ , and he finally let it show in the crease in his brow and the pursed line on his lips when he tore away the oppressive clothing and took Geralt in hand.

He wasn’t gentle, he wasn’t sweet, and he ripped a hiss out of Geralt’s mouth as he stroked him dry, palms clammy from spending the whole day working, and Geralt was so hot and heavy and perfect – but no, he would not give him the satisfaction of praise, even with his eyes. So instead he frowns in the direction of the witchers' face, locking his gaze and absolutely relishing in the look he displayed. A pained expression, mixed with desire, but clouded by shame – it was a nice change from the regular stone cold witcher he once knew. This was all his, new and exciting, and yet he loathed every second that he enjoyed the torment.

Jaskier was not… Like this. He didn’t _do_ this, take his pleasure by force no matter the say of his partner - he’s always been selfless and careful with each tumble into bed. His gut clenched as shameful whispers told him no, he wasn’t like this. The taboo feeling colored his cheeks red and burned them hot; but an angrier, louder voice overthrew them, saying he _deserves_ this, bedroom etiquette be damned. Geralt left him aching, hallow, soul-searching for how he could’ve been better, for what he did wrong, and if Geralt has the gall to come to him unannounced and thrust his presence into Jaskier’s space once more, sporting a fucking hard on when Jaskier scolds him, then he _deserves this._

Geralt was a strong man. He could take it, and if he didn’t, he could throw Jaskier down and then it would all be over. Yet the witcher stayed firmly in place, fists clenching and breath hitching and having the audacity to look enticed by the way Jaskier’s hand roughly gripped his cock. The guilt of manhandling his once best friend was erased and replaced with a fresh wave of desire to overpower and claim.

Quickening his hand until it blurred in the low light of the room, he heard Geralt restrain a groan before it could escape his lips. The slick of his quickly building precum altered the texture and allowed his fingers to slide easier over the sensitive flesh, and Jaskier cursed under his breath.

“Think you can just show up, beg a little, and suddenly I’ll forget your poisonous words… You treated me worse than dirt even before, you know that? But I stayed, not only because I wanted to, but I really did feel like we had something together.” He growled, the sound vibrated on his tongue and tasted unfamiliar. 

“Jask-“  
“Shut up. Fucking shut up. Take it quietly, you bastard.”

Geralt clenched his jaw and obeyed. That powerful surge of claiming dominance over a witcher flew through Jaskier’s blood like liquid gold, mesmerizing. 

Wrist growing tired, he wet his lips and dipped down to mouth and suck haphazardly up the side of Geralt’s cock, earning him a twitch and a muffled grumble. He could picture how those muscles under all that armor would tense with the swipe of his tongue, and even took a bit of sadistic glee watching Geralt flinch when he used too much teeth, not at all careful nor caring as it grazed hot flesh and startled his partner every time.  
Dutifully still, he was quiet. No words, only the heavy rise and fall of his lungs and gasps cut short when Jaskier finally took him in his mouth, teasing it between his lips, swirling his skilled tongue around the flushed head.

The salty taste of spend started to assault the roof of his mouth, and Jaskier sat up straight with an irritated groan. Pushing the hair out of his eyes, strands stuck to his sweaty forehead, and staring back at Geralt, he wasn’t in much better shape himself.

Though he sat up now, propped up on his elbows, his hands never moved. They must be sweaty by now, or numb with clenching his fingers tight, still leather clad in gloves, but they remained firmly where Jaskier had ordered them to be. 

“Good boy.” The praise came out before he could stop himself, and the bard schooled his expression back into one of distaste. _Fuck_  
It was so easy to lose himself with Geralt, even while fuming, near mad with hurt and anger. He had slipped back into loving him so quickly, back into his role as a supportive lover upon seeing his subservience, but that wasn’t who he was right now. Never will he play the tender romantic with Geralt, because _tender_ and _lover_ were both words he’s not given the freedom to associate with his witcher. 

Even if he couldn’t be tender, he will still make Geralt lust for him. He will give him a taste and then push him away, the perfect punishment for the man of his dreams, the subject of his song, the cruel idol in his fantasies who ripped everything away on top of that mountain. 

Yes, he almost forgot in that moment of weakness. This was all a punishment, and the endgame for Geralt was Jaskier’s forgiveness.  
As if he would want that now.

Avoiding his own erection and feelings of growing weakness, Jaskier ripped his pale undershirt out from where it stay tucked in his pants, and held the edge of it between his teeth to bare his chest to the thick air. The desired reaction was immediate; Geralt’s pupils blew wide, and his shoulders shook as if the sight of Jaskier exposing himself physically impacted him. _Good._

He cursed under around the fabric in his mouth and held Geralt’s weeping cock in both hands to stroke him with abandon, massaging and gripping hard flesh and pulling helpless moans out of the man, and fuck, that was it, wasn’t it? His own dick twitched in interest, intent in feverish blue eyes, openly staring at Geralt’s parted lips, his flexing jaw, sweat-slick neck, furrowed brows. It was just easy to lose himself with Geralt, even in his anger, even in frustration.

They locked eyes, and Geralt came with a groan. Strips of white painted Jaskier’s stomach and chest, dribbled over his fingers as he worked the man to exhaustion, not stopping his movements until Geralt’s thighs clenched with the overstimulaion.

Despite being the giver and not the receiver, Jaskier still has to take a deep steadying breath. “Fuck. Look what you did. It’s all over now.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Geralt’s eyes were like embers normally, but now they shone with a renewed flame. Alight and determined, and Jaskier was suddenly crashing down high from pride and deep into doubt.

Steeling his courage, he toed the line, one last time, to see where it lay. It's what he's always done best. “What are you going to do about it?”

When Geralt lunged forward to kiss him, it burned. He fought, tugged at white hair uselessly, bit parted lips, uselessly, all of it useless, because in the end he allowed himself the release of falling.

He couldn’t be angry anymore.

━

“I’ve come to realize something. …I need you to hear it.”

Jaskier stiffened at the words and what they could imply. Geralt’s strong arms were bare and wrapped around him where they lay, broad chest to lean back, keeping him from fleeing or falling apart. For the first time that entire night, he was accepting being more vulnerable than Geralt; turning to look over his shoulder and face his witcher, he left his expression open, while anticipating dread. He’s letting himself, whether he wants to or not, to be looked at and torn open. Blue eyes meet golden, the fire in them now quenched and back to a gentle flicker just like the flames in the hearth, and he’s pleading to not be hurt, yet expecting to be all the same.  
The bard waits with unfamiliar silence.

Geralt’s voice is sure as he explains; “I do not need Yennefer.”  
The name would usually sent a flare of something vile up his spine, perhaps anger, perhaps helplessness, but Jaskier feels no such thing corrupt him. The confusion must be obvious, and after observing for some kind of reaction, Geralt continues. 

“I wanted her, but I didn’t need her. It took me a while to understand that. I need _you_ , Jaskier.”

His calloused fingers nervously twitch and tap against Jaskier’s abdomen.

“...I think I always have.”

_Oh._

The bard named Jaskier, who relies on his craft to create beautiful ballads, and sorrowful sonnets, and epic tales of the White Wolf, who uses the human language and human feelings along with all sorts of peppered-in falsehoods hand-crafted to please the masses, that bard named Jaskier, is for once left speechless.

Only for a few moments though.

“It… took you long enough.”

With five little words, a weight has been lifted. It’s like he’s breathing for the first time since the mountain. The air, despite being foggy with heat between them, is suddenly clear.

Geralt hums, and he smiles, and he kisses Jaskier like it's the easiest thing he's ever done. “I’ll never be as big a fool to drive you off again. I promise.”

“You aren’t a fool,” Jaskier replies, and the regret of the earlier words comes cascading down around him. “You’re like me. Emotional, a bit obtuse. But you aren’t foolish. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You were… Right. About what I enjoyed.”

“And what is it that you enjoyed so much?”

“I like the way you spoke to me.”

"Oh, you're disgusting."

Jaskier laughed, and it finally felt real. It felt solid, and it felt right, like he was returning home.

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many fics lined up for The Witcher but of course the one I finish is the dialogue heavy angry sex one that i whipped out at 4am. sighs
> 
> title is from "Lanterns Lit" by Son Lux which i highly recommend


End file.
